


David

by DPPatricks



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Humor, M/M, imagined artwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:35:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22088740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: Starsky, dripping from his shower, gives Hutch an idea.
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	David

**Author's Note:**

> Initially posted on Day 16 of the 2019 Starsky & Hutch Advent calendar.

Starsky and I had arrested Thomas Dresden that morning, with enough incontrovertible evidence to create a cheerfulness in the D.A.’s office usually only seen at Christmas. As a result, our captain, Harold Dobey, was so pumped up, he was babbling through the phone’s receiver I held to my ear. I could barely get a word in edgewise.

“Uh… yes, Captain… yes, sir, I’ll be sure to tell Starsky… as soon as he gets out of the shower…Yeah, that wine vat was handy but he and Dresden were in it so long, it’s taking some time, and a whole bar of Lava soap, to cut through the stain…. Yes, sir, I’m afraid so, his clothes are a total loss…. No, sir, I don’t think he really cares right now…. Yes, sir…”

Having heard the water stop running, I glanced toward the bathroom and nearly swallowed my tongue. Dave Starsky, my partner, buddy, pal, best friend, and lover, stood in the doorway. To me, he looked like a master sculptor’s dream. He’d regained the weight he’d lost after Gunther and — because getting back in shape with P.T., yoga, swimming, and running had become his new religion — the pounds were in all the right places.

I suddenly had great difficulty concentrating on what Dobey was saying. “Uh… yeah… yes, sir… dissolving the coke in the wine and then distilling it out after it got to this country was clever, even if it was inefficient…. Yes, sir…”

My focus strayed back to the sight of my partner. Shimmering with water droplets, his curly hair, muscular body, and exquisite masculine parts brought an image to mind that made me nearly drop the phone.

“Uh… no, sir… I’m listening… of course, I am…”

Standing barefoot, hip-shot, a towel held over his left shoulder, with that elbow pointed forward, and a fresh bar of soap in his dangling right hand, Starsky looked almost exactly like the marble statue I’d seen in Florence, Italy, many years ago. The David.

Only, this was _my_ David. And I suddenly wanted a hammer and chisel in my hand. Wait! What the hell was I thinking? I’m not an artist; I can’t draw a straight line without a ruler. But Starsky’s always saying things like, “You sing, you play the piano and guitar, you write songs. You’ve helped me crop my photos so that they’re much more artistic. You’ve got a great eye, Hutch! You should try painting!”

“Wha’cha lookin’ at?” Starsky grinned, knowing the answer.

The Brooklyn accent was a discordant note. Instead of allowing it to ruin the moment, though, I gathered it to my heart. “You.”

Clearly having expected a different response, he blushed all over, raising his right hand. “This is the last bar of that skin-scrapin’ soap you had.”

I finally remembered I was still on the phone with Dobey and brought my thoughts back to our conversation. “Uh, yeah, sure, Cap’n, I’ll tell him right now…. Thanks.”

I hung up, wrenched my gaze away from Starsky, and wrote “Lava” on the shopping list.

*******

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. While Starsky was giving his deposition on the Dresden case, I went to the library and made copies of photographs of the famous statue from every angle I could find. The body style was different but the pose did wonderful things to the memory of my dripping partner. And his prodigious manhood made the original look like a travesty of the male anatomy.

I wondered if Michelangelo’s model really was that poorly-endowed, or if it was a sly editorial comment. Maybe it was something artists and sculptors of the period did – make light of a man’s equipment. Whatever! I decided that, if I could manage to come up with something half-way recognizable, I’d draw Starsky’s magnificence in its normal at-rest glory. The way he filled his jeans, slacks, cut-offs, or any other garment he wore in order to hide those jewels from the world would be more than enough to depict in this drawing. An eight-foot column of marble being unobtainable, I had decided on trying to do a sketch. That was daunting enough!

The art supply store’s clerk made recommendations after I explained that I was a beginner and wanted to draw a friend’s likeness. I left there with a pad of charcoal paper and several pencils. He also gave me a card with an art teacher’s name and phone number but I knew I’d either produce something I was reasonably proud of by myself, or give up the idea entirely. I could never allow anyone except Starsky to see what was in my mind.

But, my God, it was much tougher than I ever thought it could be, getting lines down on paper that came anywhere close to the picture I had in my head. I began to understand why not everyone was an artist. Still, I kept at it because a few of the scraps began to approximate what I had hoped to achieve.

“Wha’cha doin’ in there, Hutch?”

I’d lost count of the number of times Starsky had asked that question during the previous week. I knew he was terribly curious but I wouldn’t tell him, and blocked his view into our spare bedroom when I opened the door. “It’s a surprise, Starsk. I know you love surprises and I want this one to be special.”

“Is it a present for me?”

“Well, maybe it’s for both of us.”

“You’re killin’ me, here.”

“No, I’m not. I am tantalizing you though, for which I apologize. But I need you to promise that you will not, under any circumstances, come in here when I’m not home.”

“Aw, Hutch –”

“I mean it, Starsk. Not under any circumstances.”

“Okay.”

“You promise? You’ve never broken a promise to me and I’m going to hold you to it.”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Good. Thank you. Now, leave me alone. I need to get back to work if the surprise is going to be ready on time.”

“On time?”

“Figure of speech. I meant when it’s done.”

Grumbling, he slunk off and I hated having caused him any distress at all. I just hoped, when he saw the drawing – if I ever finished it — he’d forgive me. His seeing it beforehand would not only ruin the surprise, it might even embarrass him. I didn’t want that. I wanted to give him something that would make him understand how I see him: the ideal human male form.

The fact that he was also the kindest, gentlest, most loyal, dedicated, compassionate, trustworthy person I’d ever known, simply added to the person that was David Michael Starsky. The man I love.

END

**Author's Note:**

> I’m pretty sure just about everyone has seen, at one time or another, a photograph of Michelangelo’s masterpiece — or possibly seen the real thing — so I’ll hope readers can superimpose Starsky’s body over that of the famous statue.


End file.
